Harmony or Cacophony?

Jazzy strains of the Star Spangled banner permeate the kitchen as I sit down to type; my older son is home from school with a cough and he pieces a puzzle while singing as I try to collect my wind-blown thoughts and frame a coherent entry. We are gusting away in Colorado today - unfortunately it is trash and recycling pick-up for much of the neighborhood so the evidence of everyone's weekly snack, beverage, and reading consumption litters the streets. This disarray perfectly mirrors my unsettled spirits and emotional dust-up as I attempt to recover my balance from a fierce argument I had with my daughter yesterday.

She had been at a sleepover the night before and had the dark under-eye circles that never bode well for a child, especially as mid-afternoon approaches. As she and my son had their first-ever piano recital scheduled for 4:00, I repeatedly suggested that she nap. "I'm not tired," she insisted. Predictably she dozed off at 2:30 and I had to rouse her at 3:00, under the stress and strain of getting all of us dressed, brushed, combed and out the door by 3:15. She was not pleased to hear my overly-bright and cheerful demand, "Time to get dressed, NOW!"

A fierce battle ensued as she attempted to crawl into bed instead of into a dress, fiercely resisted each choice we laid in front of her (I had to recruit my husband to help), refused to comb her hair, etc. I handled the situation with all the grace at my command, which is to say, none. We carried her out the door half-dressed, unshod, and extremely displeased - and my voice was hoarse from shouting. Remarkably, she recovered on the way to rehearsal and emerged from her prep time beaming. She was (I may be biased) the star of the show, and her brother performed quite well, too, unscarred by our battle royale.

Why do I feel the need to confess our show-down? I have already told my friends at the recital, people on the playground at field day, and you. My Catholic roots show themselves in this need for exposition; as if I merely need to confess and apologize to have my sins forgiven. I do believe in forgiveness and don't wallow in shame, but I deeply regret adding this negative scene to the montage my daughter will remember as she recalls our relationship. I recently read somewhere that "task is inferior to relationship." So many times I focus on task - getting to the recital, being there on time, being dressed appropriately - rather than realizing that my relationship with my children is the primary objective.

I am glad that I made her go to the recital - in a dress - and that she had the chance to play and sing, and address the audience proudly. I'm not so happy with how we got there, but plan to stop confessing after I sign off. Reliving the experience won't make it better. As my daughter said to me after the performance, "Mom, I prefer to forget that, though it is really hard." Her comment reveals our (usually) similar wavelengths - and fosters my hope that our ongoing relationship will be more harmonious than discordant.